For Queen and Country
by onawingandaswear
Summary: Somehow James ends up employed by the British Secret Intelligence Service, and, truthfully, the orientation process is not as exciting as he'd imagined. - 00Silva - A companion piece to 'What Did You Do In The War'
1. Chapter 1

Contrary to popular belief, time spent in armed services does not necessarily mean you are a trained killer or even have the capacity to take a human life.

James had known commanding officers who had never seen a day of live-fire combat in their careers. Men and women of admirable character and fortitude that were no less heroic for their role in a sustained defensive force than those actively firing the ammunition.

Nonetheless, the Royal Navy didn't so much afford him the opportunity to personally see the light leave a man's eyes. He was young and through no fault of his own had come into the command of a small vessel.

The military taught leadership. How to react in a crisis or when under duress. The military taught him how to compartmentalize his life in a manner that left little to the imagination; it gave him a goal and something to aspire to in a world where so little truly mattered in the day to day.

Which is why, perhaps, it is such a blessing to receive a letter from the Secret Intelligence Service a month after he receives notice he'll be part of a 'Reduction in Forces' come spring, and he's being released from his service contract prematurely.

It's a kind way of saying he's being fired.

He's heard the rumors, just like everyone else, of the mythic MI6 and the shadow world of espionage; and distantly he'd hoped that something would come along for him. The Secret Intelligence Service can hardly be considered private sector, but it's something.

Anything, at this point, would be preferable to returning to civilian life.

* * *

The put him in a conference room with a dozen other individuals, all trying not to look as confused as he feels. Every last one of them dressed to the nines and holding themselves in a manner belaying previous military experience.

The interview process is a blur, each question falling into the next without a moment to think, but he must do something right because he and a Royal Marine are pulled into a side room shortly after for another round of questions.

Somehow he ends up employed by the British Secret Intelligence Service, and truthfully, the orientation process is not as exciting as he'd imagined.

* * *

He does desk work until he's told otherwise. His skin itches with complacency.

At least the Navy had him at sea. All London can offer is dreary weather and decent looking coworkers.

Then someone tells him about the Double-0 status and the legendary 'license to kill'.

And suddenly he has a goal. He barely knows what the job entails, but he can assume more that enough to make it alluring. He knows the assignments are classified and something he can easily hold over others. It's as close to a rank system as he can find, and it's all the motivation he needs.

* * *

"This job is five percent fieldwork, seventy-five percent paperwork and whatever is left you condition yourself to forget."

Agent Rodriguez is frustrating in that way that only senior officers can be. He's too cocky, too suave, too bloody everything and it irritates Bond to his core. The man is Spanish, or possibly Portuguese - James can't tell anymore - and rubs him in all the wrong ways.

James is smart enough to realize that his agitation comes from a place of insecurity and jealousy, but this doesn't stop him from cursing the man's name anyway.

Despite everything, Rodriguez is as close to a superior as James interacts with those first few months, and given that the higher-ups have no reason to treat him differently than any of the other new recruits, Rodriguez becomes the man he needs to impress if he want's to get noticed.

So as _Agent_ Rodriguez barks orders during a training exercise, James can only grit his teeth and push himself harder through the course in an attempt to prove to himself, really, that he is capable of a career in espionage.

He can be a secret agent, a spy, and that he can be good at it. The greatest, in fact.

So when Rodriguez gives him a cocky half smile at the end of a long day, and offers a low, _"Nice work," _It's almost enough to make him forget his burning lungs, screaming muscles and ruined clothes.

Almost.

* * *

James doesn't delude himself.

He's young, but not young enough; he's among men and women recruited at the same age he was being courted by preparatory academies; but there's something wrong with the early recruits; those men and women raised into a world of subversion and deceit.

James is in no position to judge - this is as much his life now as theirs - and he'd worked with men like this before. Special Forces types who, little by little, were relieved of their all-too crippling emotional empathy.

James may not be the most compassionate man to have ever walked the earth, but neither is he the most callous, and he can certainly appreciate what a job like this can do to a man.

It still unnerves him to see such training in action, however, and he hopes he never loses that part of himself.

* * *

James feels like he's leading the pack, at least until he's snubbed for a simple reconnaissance mission and relegated to a cubicle.

He finds out second hand that Rodriguez had recommended Powell for the assignment himself, and James is so angry he could spit fire.

He's avoided alcohol and pubs in general for months, all to aware of the stringent character profiles put together before anyone was even considered for a position in the Intelligence field.

But he's not being considered now, apparently, and he needs a drink badly.

Perhaps several.

Anything to wash the taste of failure out of his mouth.

* * *

The man before him orders a martini, shaken with ice as opposed to the standard stir. James has had enough beer already, so he orders the same; ready and willing to try something different when he hears a familiar voice drawl playfully:

"You do realize the ice bruises the liquor, yes? Changes the flavor. You could use the finest gin in all the world, and it will taste like swill in the hands of the average barman."

James swears under his breath and glances at the bartender, who himself looks mildly insulted.

"That's how I enjoy it," He lies, attempting to school the irritation from his face. "I refuse to justify my tastes to you."

Rodriguez smirks at him over the rim of his own glass.

Of all the bars in all of London, James had to chose the one within walking distance of his place of work.

* * *

He likes the martini a great deal.

Somehow that fact makes everything just a little bit worse.


	2. Chapter 2

That night in the pub reveals two things.

One: James has found himself a new favorite drink, albeit one with an alcohol content high enough that he's distantly concerned about smoking while drinking.

Two: He won't sleep his way to the middle.

* * *

It takes almost three months for James to find his bearings. A disturbingly long time given the nature of the field in which he has found himself employed, but he finds himself reassigned as a probationary field operative and the world rights itself.

He has a new desk, a new security clearance and a new direct supervisor, a man twenty years his senior called Rawlins, who immediately takes a shine to James over their shared military background.

James is not above exploitation, and it isn't difficult to take advantage of the one positive relationship he seems to have cultivated since the military left him on his arse. So before he knows it he's in the back of an RAF transport plane destined for god knows where, and if all the experience has cost him is a few dozen pounds and several losing poker hands, well, it's not a high price to pay for experience.

* * *

Rawlins sets him up on a series of escort operations, claims that James' youth and good looks will serve him well, and the man is not wrong on either count.

He receives a phone number and a commendation for his trouble.

Even his too-small cubicle can't bother him anymore, because it's temporary. Everything is temporary.

* * *

James doesn't realize how much time has passed until one morning when he bumps into Rodriguez in the commissary, and he's confronted with the knowledge that his once seething rage is now only a dull ember.

"Ah, Bond! A little bird tells me you've been busy."

James can't find it in him to be irritated so he politely affirms the statement and attempts to inch past the senior agent, but Rodriguez stops him with a firm hand.

"Tomorrow, 0530, there is a transport flying out from Heathrow. A simple escort, nothing too dicey. You are with me."

James balks slightly, but nods and Rodriguez smiles broadly, pulling away to clasp his hands together cheerfully.

"Excellent. Dress for the tropics."

The man is gone as quickly as he had come.

* * *

He questions Rawlins about the assignment and the analyst gives him a sideways look.

"You think everyone is out to get you, Bond. That's your problem, really, but you're missing the big picture,"

The Rawlins leans on his cane heavily like the conversation is as painful as his bad hip and James almost feels guilty for constantly looking to the man for positive criticism.

"No one here wants to see you fail. Not the least of whom being Agent Rodriguez. So you were the best in your class and he passed you over for some half-arsed mission guarding a chocolate factory from the 'Red-Headed League' or some such nonsense. Big whoop! What's the point of giving you something easy when there are a half dozen agents who need that kind of experience just to measure up to what you already are."

Rawlins coughs wetly and James moves for a tissue, but the man ignores him and spits into a trash bin before continuing.

"Stop pitying yourself because you think no one likes you. I swear, you'd think you two were having a lover's quarrel the way you prattle on. Now get out of here so I can get some work done."

James retreats feeling slightly less morose, and Rawlins yells distantly "Don't forget the whiskey you owe me!"

* * *

He drops heavily into a seat across from Rodriguez and the dark-haired man smiles indulgently at him over the report he's reading.

"So glad you could make it, James, for a moment I was worried."

He bristles slightly at the flighty use of his name, but he quells the feeling and smiles coyly in response, still unable to keep from baring his teeth.

"I'm happy to be here."

Rodriguez laughs, drawing looks from the other agents on the flight, and points at James with a pen.

"We're going to have fun, you and I. I can tell."

Rodriguez tosses the file in his lap to James suddenly and he thanks God for his sharp reflexes.

"Read up, Agent. Twelve hours to Colombia, and we have quite a bit of ground to cover."

* * *

Things go south and Rodriguez almost dies pulling James out of a firefight.

"Thanks, Agent Rodriguez." He pants, his back pressed firm against one of the empty oil drums they've taken cover behind.

"I have a name," Rodriguez starts, sliding a fresh magazine into his Beretta. "I have a name, and if we live through this you will call me by that name. Yes?"

James spits a mouthful of blood onto the dirt, cheek already swelling from where he'd bitten down too hard taking a punch, and nods, fumbling for his own gun.

Rodriguez smiles, his teeth too white in a face covered in dirt and muck.

There's a part of James, one that is getting smaller by the minute, that hopes they doesn't make it out of the warehouse.

But it's a very small part.

Negligible, even.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're doing it again," James waves his hand in the direction he thinks Tiago might be. "That thing where you forget you're not speaking english."

"_Gilipollas."_

"I did understand that, though."

* * *

"Your flat is shit."

James looks up from the peeling linoleum on the kitchen floor and immediately feels like a fool.

"I'm aware of my living situation; I'm saving up for something decent."

"You know that double-0s live in MI6 furnished safe-houses?"

"Likely because the poor bastards don't live long enough to make any use of them. They have to be paid up front."

"It is why we get paid in beans, the budget is allocated to dead men. There is this one place, belongs to, ah, double-oh-two? It has this amazing view, you can see all of London. That's the one I want."

"Yeah, when you make double-0. Good luck with that. MI6's stables are full, so unless there's some horrible crisis, no one is going to get promoted anytime soon."

"Just wait. Someone will pop off soon enough."

"_Christ_, Tiago."

"Too crude?"

"A bit, yeah."

* * *

James doesn't know when things change. He can't pinpoint when he and Tiago fall into bed together, but he has a rough couple of months where everything is a bit fuzzy around the edges.

He drinks too much. He can't sleep. And Tiago is always just _around_.

"Are we together?" He asks one night, watching Tiago fuss with a take-away box.

"We certainly are not apart."

It's an acceptable enough answer.

* * *

Trevelyan dies a hero, then comes back from the dead and goes rogue and it's the worst kept secret in the Secret Intelligence Service.

He pulls an all-nighter to piecemeal together a report on 007's flawed assessment of the events that occurred at the Archangel Chemical Weapons Facility; and as darkness slips into unforgiving day he prays that no one important will be reading it.

He can barely keep his eyes open when he sees Tiago having a heated discussion with a small group of engineers from Q branch in the commissary and waves absently, mind occupied by nightmare scenarios where his report is not only shit, but misfiled as well.

If records fucks up again he's going to catch hell.

He comes back to himself when Tiago is suddenly in front of him, speaking hurriedly in his mother tongue and pulling James' coffee out of his hands.

"You want to speak english, maybe?"James snaps, reaching for the cup before the other agent dumps the entire contents out. "It's too early for me to translate your bloody nagging."

"You want to go fuck yourself?" Tiago bites, tone abnormally sharp, and pours fresh coffee into the cup and slapping James' hands away from the creamer.

"You have been standing here for three minutes, staring at the wall, filling your cup with non-dairy creamer," Tiago's lips twist into a sneer. "There was no coffee in your cup, James. None."

"What the hell is your problem?" James rips the cup away and hisses when the liquid sloshes over the side and burns his hand.

Of course. Of course this would be the start of his day.

"For the love of god, pull yourself together."

"Why?" He snaps, hand throbbing and mind foggy with exhaustion.

"How do you not know?"

"Know what?

"Trevelyan."

"Yes?"

"He's dead. _The double-oh-six slot is open_."

Tiago slaps James' cheek lightly and straightens the lapels of his jacket.

Realization hits hard.

"The announcement is today?"

"Yes, and a little bird told me you are on the short-list."

"You have more field experienced than I do, why would it be me?"

"You believe that they would make a foreign-born agent a double-0, now? After Alec?"

James feels his stomach drop at the barely disguised hurt on Tiago's face.

"There is no way it'll be me, you're the better agent. You've got seniority."

Tiago gives him a look and smooths non-existent wrinkles from his own jacket.

"What I _have_ is an accent and certificate of live birth which declares me a foreign national. It's going to be someone, James," He says softly, low enough that their coworkers won't hear. "Why should it not be you?"

The moment passes and Tiago's face splits into a too-wide smile.

James doesn't know what just happened, but he feels like it was important.

* * *

He does get called in to HR, but there's no promotion. Instead he receives a fairly severe reprimand over the Archangel brief.

He is mildly disappointed, but grateful, if anything, that he doesn't walk into the the 006 slot.

This may be James' career, but it will always be Tiago's life.

* * *

"Do you have a family?"

"_Como_?"

"Family. Do you have any? Brothers and sisters?" James asks.

"Perhaps sons and daughters? Maybe I had children; a wife and a home." Tiago cards his fingers through James' non-regulation hair and passes him a cigarette. "If I did, I do not anymore. But what about you, ah? What secrets do you hide from the world?"

James takes a long drag from his cigarette. When he exhales the smoke is thick and cloying.

He's 27 and too young to feel this old.

He doesn't know what he was expecting.

"Nothing important, I think," He says breathlessly. "Just this."

"Ouch. So I am your greatest secret? Not a very good one, then, I should think."

They've been drinking steadily for hours, the only possible reason being to distract James from a fractured rib and the ache in his lungs, watching shit television and waiting for the sky to turn black.

"Do you hurt?"

He shakes his head no, but Tiago places a pill on his tongue anyway and hands him what's left of the vodka.

"Swallow. It will not kill you."

His words are no reassurance and years of leadership training scream at him to abstain, but his judgement is shot and everything aches and he can't keep from trusting the man beside him.

"I hate you," he mutters, swallowing anyway.

The drugs only make his vision fuzzy and his mind soft, but it's enough. Cigarette smoke curls enticingly before his eyes, playing into gentle shapes that otherwise would hold no meaning.

"Maybe, when death comes, we are free to be the men we wish to be." James says, words thick on his tongue.

"I love the way you wax poetic when you are...ah..._flying high. _Your tolerance is," Tiago doesn't finish, just makes a popping sound with his mouth and puts his hand in front of James' face, pointer finger and thumb making a circle.

James presses his face to Tiago's chest and lets himself bask in the warmth of another human being.

"We're not going to die. I'm not going to die."

"You will one day, _Corazón_, and when that day comes you will not be alone."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to."

James contemplates Tiago's words for a moment before he realizes what he missed.

"_Corazón_?"

Tiago shrugs and James fights the urge to belittle the term of endearment, all too ready to defend his masculinity before he realizes that it really doesn't matter anymore.

* * *

"James?" Tiago asks him after scaring off a bottle-blonde co-ed in his third failed attempt of the night. "Do you think they have a fear of us? Of what we can do?"

"Well, you certainly startled her."

James may be more than a little intoxicated.

"I think they can sense it. That we're different. Dangerous."

"Obviously."

Tiago leans in across the table, a smirk on his lips and liquor on his breath.

"I could kill everyone in this bar."

But he's not _that_ drunk. So James humors him and nods discreetly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Could you? There have to be fifty people here, I just don't think you can do it."

Tiago reaches across the short distance between them and cups James' cheek, far too gentle an action given their conversation topic and the man's already fickle desire to fuck someone who is decidedly not James Bond.

"Was that a dare, Agent Bond? And the number is actually fifty-three." Tiago corrects. "Fifty-three oblivious little vermin who have no concept of the danger that men like us keep from their doorstep."

The lights are a little too bright and his head is spinning.

"You're going to make a great villain one day," James says teasingly. "You should start writing your monologues now. Sweeping and epic. You'd be great at it, and you certainly have the right accent."

Tiago just laughs and pulls him into a rough kiss, the action unexpected enough that James spills what is left of his beer across the table.

"You know you've just shit all over your chances at taking someone home, right?" He mutters against Tiago's lips, but his companion just pulls away, tosses a few bills on the table and takes James' arm to maneuver them through the small crowd and out onto the street.

"Don't give yourself a large head, but I think you will be enough for tonight." Tiago tells him, huffing slightly at the October chill. James' foot catches on a crack in the sidewalk and he stumbles before he starts laughing for no reason at all.

"Tiago, never let anyone tell you you're not a romantic at heart."

The other man steadies James with a hand and whatever moment they were having is broken by a cheery whistle from behind.

"Oi! You forgot your wallet!"

James spins on his heel and his mind doesn't register any danger before pain explodes across his face.

Consciousness slips away quickly, but before he blacks out completely he thinks ruefully, _I'm a bloody secret agent._

* * *

He comes to in the bathroom of his own flat, and he can feel the sticky crust of dried blood that must cover a good portion of his face, the skin tight and hot and _throbbing_.

He raises an unsteady hand to touch at what he hopes is not a noticeable wound and hisses when his fingers encounter raw flesh and unyielding thread.

"Tiago?" he calls out, mouth dry and voice raspy. "Are you dead?"

His head is pounding, and he cannot fathom what part of his brain decided it was a good idea to verbalize anything that would make sound.

Between the hangover and the stitches, one thing is abundantly clear.

He has to stop drinking so much.

The door creeks open and James sees Tiago, wearing a three-piece suit, holding a glass of water and an open pill bottle. He can see that the man's knuckles are bruised, the small cuts on his fingers no-doubt having scabbed overnight.

"I am alive. Can the same be said for you?"

"No. What happened? Did we get jumped?"

Tiago makes a face at the question and drops two large pills into James' hand before handing him the water.

"More or less. They caught you across the temple with a bottle."

"Are you - ?"

"Don't worry."

His head hurts too much to argue, but he knows what happened last night, even if Tiago won't voice it.

"It was the kiss." James mutters tiredly, knowing he can't blame the waver in his voice on the drugs or the head wound. Tiago just looks at him and pulls on a pair of gloves, the black leather sliding over swollen, discolored skin.

"I have to go in, but I managed three days medical leave for you. Can you handle yourself while I'm gone?"

"How did you swing that?" Before the question is even out of his mouth Tiago's fingers are dancing in midair over an invisible keypad.

"Right. I'll be fine. Just help me out of this damn tub before you dash off."

* * *

They don't talk about that night, or the implications of what occurred in regard to their social or personal lives.

Nonetheless, Tiago is shaken enough to alter his behavior. He won't drink in public anymore. James wishes on some level that he had taken the same lesson away from the experience.


	4. Chapter 4

They find a new pub. It's tiny and dirty, but it's quiet and less than a block from James' Stratford apartment and James could be a Martian gorilla for all the owner cares.

Tiago insists they

He'd lost Tiago shortly after arriving, and when the complacent silence slides into the jaunty chords of _Love Potion No. 9 _he knows exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

Roger gives him a playful look across the bar and hands him two frothy glasses of Guinness instead of the gin and soda he'd asked for.

He turns to the small clear area in front of the jukebox and nearly laughs when Tiago sways toward him, mouthing along to the lyrics.

_"She bent down and turned around and gave me a wink,"_

He snatches a beer from James' hand and hip-checks him lightly, enough to jostle a bit of his drink onto the floor. James hears a snort and sees Roger behind the bar trying to look uninterested.

It's only then that he realizes they are completely alone.

"Roger?" He motions to the empty bar and upturned chairs with what he hopes is a questioning expression. The man shrugs and nods toward Tiago.

"Told me it was a private party."

James can't formulate a response and smiles into is glass until _Love Potion No. 9_ slides into _Secret Agent Man _and James chokes on his drink.

"It can't be helped that no one responded to my invitations."

"Maybe you should have actually sent them." James snarks, and Tiago nods thoughtfully, head moving in sync with his hips.

"I suppose that would have helped. Nonetheless," Tiago points an accusing finger and beckons James forward. "Agent Bond. Dance with me,"

He can't really decline, given they're the only ones in the building.

How did this become his life?

* * *

"I believe they are sending me up north for a bit. A hostage crisis or some such nonsense; you would think the IRA would have better sense after the last go around."

"Be sure to leave some alive to tell the tale of the great 009."

* * *

"I'll be home soon enough, and we will have something truly marvelous to celebrate."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

James lets himself sag against Tiago.

"_Corazón_."

"Love you, too. Try not to die."

"I'll do my best."

* * *

The flight manifest out of Hong Kong estimates an arrival time of 12:48 A.M. James knows this because Tiago knows this and has been unable to hide his enthusiasm.

So he picks up dinner from Tiago's favorite Italian restaurant in St. John's Wood and waits.

Two A.M. folds into four, fixe, then six, and James is back behind his desk, eagerly eyeing the hallway off the floor stairwell.

Nothing.

No emails. No phone calls.

Davidson confirms that the flight arrived on time, but Agent Rodriguez, the infamous 009, is nowhere to be found. The agents on the flight politely tell him Tiago never boarded.

He requests a meeting with Director Mansfield, and is of course denied, so he 'accidentally' runs into her outside the commissary. She looks at him in her nonplussed way and tell him flat out that 009 never made it to the airstrip and that they are 'looking' for him.

He asks to be reassigned to Section H, but the entire division has been downsized in light of the handover, and his requests are denied.

Days become a week. A month.

Tiago doesn't come home and custodial cleans out 009's office.

By the time James gets to Tiago's Double-0 flat, the doors have been rekeyed, so he breaks in. The place has been sanitized. The warm burgundy walls have been painted a stark white and nothing of the previous occupant remains.

James' spare sleep clothes are gone from the dresser. Even the floor safe has been cleaned out.

He leaves before security responds to the break in and sits in his car for almost an hour, staring at nothing until an officer taps on his window.

James wipes at his face and rolls the window down.

"You alright son?"

"Yeah, yes, I'm sorry, do you need me to move?"

"Loading zone, I'm afraid. You'll have to get a move on,"

James goes to start the vehicle and the officer says something he doesn't quite catch.

"Sorry?"

"I said, you look a bit down," the man tells him, eyes sympathetic. "Best you can do is soldier on."

James nods, throat tight, and pulls away from the building where he's spent so many sleepless nights.

_Soldier on._

He can do that. For Tiago. For 009.

* * *

**Epilogue**

* * *

"Put the burgundy away." Silva drawls from behind the monitor, without pulling his gaze from the screen.

"Alright, what's wrong with the burgundy?"

"The shade makes you look like a thug. Completely undignified."

"It's _Prada_."

"It's _tacky_."

"Well, what would you suggest?"

"Tom Ford. Navy pinstripe. Brings out your eyes."

"It has a waistcoat."

"_It has a waistcoat,_" Raoul mocks quietly, still absorbed in his task. "We're going to attend an assassination, not a opera."

"Tell me, Tiago, will this tie accent the inevitable bruising about your face and neck? We don't want to clash, now do we?"

"Threats will get you nowhere, Mister Bond. Navy Pinstripe."

Silva looks up suddenly with a wicked grin.

"Or I could toss you naked in the boot of the car. Your choice, really. I'll win either way."

James puts the grey jacket back on its hanger.

"Yes, I suppose you will."


End file.
